


Ghosts

by sansakatara



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, House Stark, I still suck at titles, mixture of book and show canon, the stark girls deserve the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansakatara/pseuds/sansakatara
Summary: Three times Sansa is reminded of her sister.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark
Kudos: 24





	Ghosts

Ghosts  
I.  
The first time it had happened, they were coming back from seeing the Princess Mrycella off.

  
Sansa had watched as Mrycella whispered something in Tommen's ear as she embraced him. Whatever it was made him smile tremulously, in spite of his tear-stained face. At that moment he reminded Sansa of baby Rickon and how he had wept when left behind at Winterfell with her lady mother and Robb and Bran. It had been over a year since then. _Do you cry for us still, Rickon?_ Sansa thought. _Or have you forgotten us instead?_ She could not decide which possibility hurt more.

  
In contrast to her younger brother, Mrycella’s eyes was unyielding to any tears. Instead, she was smiling brightly as if she was simply leaving her family and her home for only a few days. How it had been decided with the threat of Stannis looming over the city, the princess would be better protected in Dorne. Sansa wondered if they would do the same for Tommen. After all, he was Joffrey's heir presumptive. 

  
“You sound like one of your stupid kittens,” Joffrey had sneered as Mrycella took their leave of them. “Princes don’t cry.” Evidently, while Joffrey had played the gracious king during the goodbyes, it seemed that he had little left over to comfort his brother.

  
The memory of Arya and Joffrey flashed through her mind. Without thinking, she spoke. “I saw you cry.”

  
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he turned on her. “Have you something to share, my lady?”  
 _Gods be good, you stupid little girl._ Sansa’s stomach twisted. How could she salvage this? She did not mean to cause offence, as Joffrey’s dangerous tone so clearly implied. It had simply been the truth, and the truth had felt sweet upon her tongue after all the lies she’d been forced to speak. She remembered that awful day remembered even more vividly the way his eyes had been filled with such loathing. How that look had been on her mind when she had been later called to speak about what happened. Sometimes she remembered Arya’s look as well, her grey eyes filled with accusation. That had cut as well, because as much as she had despaired of Arya sometimes, she hadn’t any intention to hurt her. But Arya had always seen things in black and white.

  
Glancing at Tommen, Sansa remembered Rickon again. “I only meant…. It seems a normal thing to do, Your Grace. My little brother was like Tommen when I left Winterfell.” It seemed a thousand years ago now.  
“And is your brother a prince?” Joffrey snapped.  
Sansa knew that Robb had been crowned King in the North. And how she could not? She thought bitterly. The news had granted her another beating as if she had any control over what her brother did. That being said, however, it consequentially made her and her siblings' princes and princesses like Tommen and Mrycella. She longed to tell Joffrey this, and not only that but Robb was the only king she recognised. But she couldn’t. This was Kingslanding, where the courtiers supped upon wine as much as they did lies and so it was lies, she must serve Joffrey. Whatever Arya might have thought, sometimes a lie was the only choice you were left with in a situation.  
Sometimes a lie was all that kept you safe.

  
“No, Your Grace.” She kept her tone deliberately contrite.  
Joffrey’s lips curled in that ugly way he had. “Then it’s not really relevant, is it?” At least he sounded more petulant than dangerous now, Sansa thought with relief. She turned away, watching as the ship Mrycella departed on receded. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be on that ship. Even if it meant she was still just a Lannister hostage, better a Lannister hostage in Dorne and away from Joffrey than a Lannister hostage here with him.  
As they had turned to leave, Tommen sent her a small smile as if to thank her. Suddenly, it had made everything worth it. She sent a silent prayer to the Mother to keep Tommen and Mrycella safe.

  
Her mind had still been on the ship as they left. But as she looked up, she saw the faces of the smallfolk, and she felt her stomach clench again for an entirely different reason. Something about their faces unnerved her, and it seemed she was not the only one. Cersei was laughing at something Ser Lancel said, but her laugh was high and false. She tried avoiding looking at them, but then a little girl had run out across their path. She was small and skinny. Her brown hair tangled; her clothes unkempt. When she turned to look at them, Sansa saw her eyes were grey.  
 _Arya?_  
For a moment, the girl looked so much like her sister the name had been on the tip of Sansa’s tongue. But then the girl had turned, and Sansa saw that it was not Arya at all. Her hair was darker than Arya’s had been, her face rounder and more freckled.

  
Then the girl was swallowed by the crowd, disappearing like Arya had done that dreadful day at the Trident. She had not long to think of her however, when mud splattered across Joffrey’s face. “Who threw that?” Joffrey screamed. He commanded the Hound to bring him the person’s head, deaf to Sansa’s pleas to let the man go.

But then the storm broke out, a storm full of fury and fear trapping them.

She would dream of that feeling, of being trapped for weeks afterwards.

  
And sometimes in that dream, she would see the little girl that looked like her sister but wasn't her at all.

II.

  
The second time it happened, it had been after the arrival of the new queen to be. For helping the Lannisters prevent Stannis from taking Kingslanding during the battle, Sansa was set aside in favour of the Tyrell girl. Sansa had rejoiced in it, knowing she would not have to give herself to the boy who had taken her father’s head. Yet despite her relief, she could not help but feel for Margaery. And that feeling only increased, the more she spent time with her.

  
Spending time with Margaery also means spending time with her ladies in waiting. Among them was the “roses on the lower branches”, Megga, Alla, and Elinor Tyrell. Megga and Elinor were about Sansa’s age, Alla a little younger. They reminded Sansa of herself and Jeyne Poole and little Beth Cassel. But it was Alysanne Bulwer that had made her pause.

  
They had been sitting one afternoon in one of the gardens, given over for Margaery’s use.  
“I cannot wait until the day that Margaery and His Grace are wed.” Alysanne had said, helping herself to some strawberries. “It’ll be wonderful, with all the mummers and musicians.” Her eyes were shining.  
“Yes, it’s a good thing we’ll have plenty of musicians.” Megga smiled slyly. “Otherwise we’d have no choice but to listen to your singing, dear Aly.”  
Like the rest, Alysanne was always dressed beautifully and her brown hair styled in a similar fashion to Margaery's. She looked nothing like the messy little sister Sansa remembered from Winterfell. Yet the face she made was so like the wilful look Arya got sometimes that it was striking. Even her response was like Arya’s. “Better my singing than yours, stupid.”

  
There was gentle laughter, but Sansa did not join them. However similar they might have been in that moment, Alysanne Bulwer was certainly not Arya Stark. Arya would never have spoken excitedly about anything to do with Joffrey. Her sister had hated Joffrey as much as Sansa did now. In truth, Arya was dead. Gone, like Father and their brothers Bran and Rickon.

  
III.

  
The third time, she had been in the Vale.

It was beautiful, just like the songs had promised. Even better, it was far from Kingslanding. Sansa knew that her disappearance the day of Joffrey’s death made her a suspect. Because of this, Lord Petyr made her darken her hair and don a new name- Alayne Stone. She would be Alayne for now, Petyr had said. People were looking for a pretty maid, blue-eyed and auburn-haired. The daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, King Joffrey's once-betrothed. Alayne was pretty still, but nobody would be looking for a dark-haired bastard girl.

It was difficult for Sansa to reconcile the feelings being this Alayne gave her. It meant being free from the Lannisters, and her marriage to Lord Tyrion. It felt like the gods were mocking her when she had been forced to wed him. She had been spared being wed to the boy who had killed her father, only to be given to his uncle instead.

  
Tyrion had been kind in his way, Sansa remembered. But no amount of kindness could make her forget him being a Lannister. Nor could she forget the constant fear she had felt that he would eventually decide to claim his rights. She had not known where her courage had come from that night when she had told him she would never want to lay with him. Tyrion had seemed to accept this, but with her brothers dead Sansa knew that his father Lord Tywin would want her with child- a Lannister child to claim Winterfell.

  
Even if would have been her child as much as Tyrion’s, the idea of a Lannister having control of the North was completely appalling to Sansa. But it was more than that, Sansa knew. When she had still been betrothed to Joffrey, Cersei had told her that even if she never loved her husband, she would love his children. But any time Joffrey or Tyrion laid with her it would not have been her choice. It would have felt like a betrayal to her family, to lay with one of their murderers and give birth to their child. How could she love any child of Lannister blood, if she were in constant fear that they would inherit the cruelty of his cousin or the coldness of his grandfather?

Deep down, Sansa knew that she never would. She knew that if she had ever found herself with Tyrion’s child, she would have done anything to get rid of it.  
Failing that, she would throw herself from a window as she had once thought to do in the days after her father’s death.

  
Thankfully, it had not come to that. That being said however, being Alayne also meant being trapped. She was trapped because she had no place but here. She was the last of her family, apart from Jon on the Wall. They had never been close. That did not mean she had not loved him; she had loved all of her siblings- even Arya she knew now. But still, there was no point thinking of such things. Alayne has no brothers or sisters.

  
But still, there are times when it was hard not to do so. She remembers how she has asked Mya why she wasn't afraid of falling while going down the dangerous descent from the Vale to the Eyrie. "I never fall," Mya had said. 

Like that moment with Lady Alysanne, it was something Arya might have said. Arya had loved riding, Sansa remembered. Like Mya, Arya had never been afraid of falling when she rode. Even if she had, it would have been worth it, she had told Sansa once. _When I ride, it makes me feel free. Like I can go anywhere._ Sansa hadn’t really thought much of it at the time.

But now, feeling that sense of freedom- of being able to go anywhere, would have been the sweetest thing.  
But it was far from the only thing she wanted.

  
IV.

  
Sansa cannot see the girl’s face. Her back is turned to her, as she looks up at Father’s statute.

But Sansa knows it is her sister. She had known it when her guards had come to her, speaking of a girl that arrived at their gates- speaking of things and people that only Arya would have known. Wanting to see Jon, like Arya would have. Disappearing from their sight when they commanded her to wait, like Arya would have done.

As if sensing her presence, the girl turns and faces her. And the small part of Sansa that still feared she was wrong vanishes.

  
Even in the dim torchlight and the fact that Arya is no longer nine years old, Sansa recognizes her immediately. Perhaps it is because she looks like Jon, she thinks. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “Arya?”  
Arya smiles. “Hello, Sansa.”


End file.
